Old Lives
by Ryder85
Summary: Formerly Moved On. Please reread and review. Takes place eight years in Enterprise's future. Some parts of the crew have drifted apart, and one officer takes the initiative to change that.


A/N: This is formerly Moved On, now Old Lives. I really wasn't happy with the first version(actually versions, since I've redone it twice.) This is certainly the last version of this chapter though. More coming soon, if you like it.

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The two story farm house style structure that rose up before me wasn't exactly what I had pictured in my mind, but it fits my preconceptions nonetheless. My hands tighten reflexively on the steering wheel of the rented car; as much as part of me wants to turn around and run, I know I can't put this meeting off any longer. It has been a long seven years, but when I step out of the car onto the worn blacktop, it feels as though I have never left. The noon day Florida sun shines down on me, warming me in ways I had forgotten possible while living deep in the bowels of a starship. I stretch wildly under its rays; it had been a long drive from the Tampa Bay Spaceport, and my muscles aren't as forgiving as they once were.

Enterprise is back at Jupiter Station for a scheduled four week upgrade and repair. While the last mission we carried out had been largely exploratory and diplomatic, she had still taken quite a bit of damage that we had been unable to fix while in space. So while the ship that had largely become our home was being repaired, myself and the rest of the crew that served aboard her had been granted shore leave. Four uninterrupted weeks of our time had seemed too good to be true at the time. But as I stand here in the open air, with the varied smells I'd always associated with the beach wafting into my nose, I realize it's not a dream, and therefore had to be real.

I'm not sure what I expected to see when I arrived at the address Starfleet had given me, but this quaint little house a mile from the beach, with it's pale yellow siding and wraparound porch complete with wooden porch swing isn't it. I stand in the street for a few minutes longer, studying the patchy green grass that made up the lawn, the slightly overgrown flower garden planted underneath the front bay window. A small children's bike had been abandoned on the front lawn, complete with hot pink streamers running from the handlebars and a big yellow flower attached to the front basket.

I decide against grabbing my small duffel from the trunk; seven years is far too long a gap to assume a friendship still existed. And I'm not even sure the address I had been forwarded was the right one. Starfleet Command had been pretty reluctant to give it to me; they had only caved when they realized I would get it with their permission or without. They had still tried to appeal to my sense of fairplay though, by mentioning promises made for a life of peace, with no work-related interruptions. According to them, all the right offers had been put forth, and rejected just as quickly. This person, they said, had cut all ties with Starfleet. Standing on the sidewalk in front of this house, I'm hoping they weren't all together right. But you didn't get to be where I was without learning to take a few risks. The worst that could happen was being thrown out on my rear.

I walk down the sidewalk a ways, stopping once I was parallel with the driveway. There's no vehicle in obvious sight (unless you counted the child's bike on the front lawn) but a stand alone garage set further back from the house could've easily housed one. I look back towards the front door of the house. Did I really want to do this? Suppose Starfleet is right, and the owner of the house doesn't want to be bothered by reminders of another life. Would I be welcomed with open arms? Or cast aside like the rotten friend I had turned out to be? Whatever happened, it would be better than I deserved. It would provide some kind of closure to the friendship that had never officially ended.

My mind involuntarily flashes back to a time before this great distance existed between us, both literally and figuratively. I remember the excitement in his face, the giddiness in his tone as he explained his plan for an upgrade to one of Enterprise's vital systems at a senior staff meeting. I remember with perfect detail the explosion that rocked the ship afterwards, setting off alarms at every console. I remember many hours spent in sickbay with the rest of the alpha shift, waiting for news after having nothing but speculation. I remember afterwards, when a diagnosis had finally been given and all our questions had been answered. A career and possibly a life had been ruined that day. It was then that the distance started to grow, even before we returned to Earth and left once again without that person that had once seemed such an integral part of the crew.

Back in the present, I shudder with the force of the memories. My stomach begins flipping again with the nervousness I had somehow managed to quell in the past hours. Now so close to my destination, the anxiety I had been feeling about the reunion returned _en force,_ and for a long moment I close my eyes to bite back the nausea. As a friend once told me, "Either shit, or get off the pot." It was a crude saying, but the memory that surfaced along with it made me smile. And just like that, the nervousness is gone. I stride up to the front door, raise my hand to knock.

For a long moment there's nothing but silence. Then the door swings open unexpectedly, and my gaze lowers to a small child. She's the kind of little girl that could make a fortune posing for catalogues and Hallmark cards. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, several wisps had fallen away and were brushing the line of her jaw. There was a smudge of dirt across her forehead; it matched perfectly with the set of grass stains on both her knees. She's wearing a simple pair of jean shorts, and a pink t-shirt with the words "_my daddy went to jupiter station and all I got was this lousy t-shirt_", although it looks as if both had seen better days. I take a step closer to her, looking carefully at her face. A delicate nose that turned up slightly at the tip, and brilliant blue eyes so familiar my heart tightened in my chest. I imagine she can't be much older than five or six. She looks at me suspiciously. She closes the door against her body, blocking my vision into the house. She can't block everything, though, and I can hear the sounds of a children's cartoon floating out onto the porch on which I stand.

"Who are you?" She speaks with great authority, and heaps of confidence, and I wonder if maybe she's a little older than five or six.

I'm not entirely sure how to deal with children, especially one as apparently mature as this one. So I settle with, "I'm an old friend of your daddy's."

"My daddy doesn't have any friends. Except for a man named Jack Daniels. I've never meant him." Again, she speaks as though I'm her peer, and not a man at least eight times her age.

"Well, I'd like to prove him wrong. Is he home?"

She twists around, peers back through the doorway, although something tells me that it's just a motion, that she knows exactly where he is. "I think he's upstairs with Scooter."

"Who's Scooter?" The words are out before I can stop them, and she smirks in response.

"If you were my daddy's friend, you wouldn't hafta ask that." She looks smug, as though we were playing some kind of game and she had just revealed her winning stratedgy.

I cross my arms against my chest. "You sure do have an awful lotta stones for such a young girl."

She smiles, an ear to ear grin, and I immediately get the impression that she is going to be a heartbreaker when she grows up. But hey, who am I kidding? She probably is now. "Daddy says that too."

As if reply to her words, I hear uneven footsteps echoing in the hall behind her. A voice drifts out through the partially open door, one so familiar my heart skips a beat in my chest. "Sweetness, what I have told you about door to door salesmen?"

She rolls her eyes, as if she's on the receiving end of this lecture seven times a day, and spits out in a sing song voice, "They're the spawn of Satan and should be treated as such."

The footsteps sound closer, and are joined by brief, but rich laughter. "Good girl. So why are you-"

And then suddenly he's in the doorway, standing behind the young girl with his hand on her shoulder. He's staring at me, his jaw hanging open and his eyes kind of wide, as though he can't quite believe who it is he's looking at. I take the moment of surprise and confusion to study him. He's just as I remember him, and yet so completely different at the same time. His hair is a little longer than he'd worn it on board Enterprise, and there are more lines around his eyes and mouth than I remember seeing the last time we were face to face. The set of his features is different too; it was almost like the casual optimism he'd enjoyed for so long had vanished, and been replaced with a kind of bitterness. He's wearing a pair of worn blue jeans, a white t-shirt with a red flannel shirt overtop, a far cry from his choice of civilian garb aboard Enterprise.

"Malcolm?"

I grin, because I'm not sure what else to do, and because it's just _so damn good_ to see him alive and well, even after hearing from Starfleet. "Hi Trip."

And suddenly there's no breath, as he throws his arms around me, entrapping me in a lung bursting, bone crushing, rib snapping bear hug. It's all I can do so liberate my own arms, and snake them around his too thin body in my own lopsided embrace. His face his pushed against my shoulder, I can feel his breath hot on my neck. We stand like that for a few minutes, neither one wanting to break the contact, before Trip suddenly pulls away. He looks down comically at the young girl tugging on the end of his shirt. He laughs lightly, scoops her up with one arm.

"Charlie, this is my closest friend from a long time ago, Malcolm Reed. We used to work together. Mal, this is my daughter."

He's just beaming with pride, and even if the daughter he'd been holding in his arms had been a troll instead of the beautiful young thing she was, I wouldn't have been able to hide my grin. For her part, the girl, who I assume is called Charlie, looks less like the young woman I had originally mistaken her for, and more the small child I'm now sure she is.

"It's a pleasure to meet you."

She smiles politely, but seems shy with her father so close.

"Malcolm, what the hell are you doing here?" Trip sets Charlie down inside the door and pulls me in behind him, kicking the door shut with his foot. I'm standing in an open foyer, hardwood floors beneath my feet, a great wide staircase raising up in front of me to the second floor. The walls are painted a pale yellow, and simply covered with framed pictures. From my distance, I can make out some of Trip and his daughter, who by now has wandered away to who knows where. There are others of him with a small baby, a stunning dark haired woman, and even more of people I have never before met. The room to my left appears to be a sitting room, there are several matching high backed chairs and a sofa in a corresponding fabric. The walls are the same colour, except not quite packed as full with family mementos. The room to my right is the one from which the tv sounds originated, I can see Charlie sitting on the floor in front of a tv, colouring in a book while half-watching a brightly painted cartoon. There's a couch lining the far wall, and a reclining chair that has 'Trip' written all over it in the far corner.

I glance up to my friend; he's looking at me expectantly, obviously waiting for an answer to his question. "Uh, I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I'd stop by and say hello."

He rolls his eyes, turns and starts walking down the hallway that leads away from the foyer, parallel with the staircase, and motions for me to follow him. I watch him carefully from behind, measuring his strides with my eyes. He's moving much better than he was last time I saw him, but it's still obvious something's not quite right. "Last I heard, the ship was 1000 light years away."

That comment makes me smile as I slip out of my shoes and pad along behind him in socked feet. By now, there are at least a half dozen ships like Enterprise out there, but to Trip, the original NX-01 is still "the ship." "Yes, well, when I said neighbourhood, I meant dimension."

I step onto the cool tiled floor of the kitchen. To my left is the cooking area; a large four burner stove, dishwasher, refrigerator, and cupboards. Beyond the counter is a wooden table, with space to seat six. The wall to my right is carved out into an arch shape, leading to what I presume to be a dining room. Trip waves backhandedly at the kitchen table, offering me a seat while he pulls a kettle out from a cupboard underneath the counter. "Actually, Enterprise came in for repairs."

He looks up at me out of the corner of his eye as he shakes out the small tea bags. "What, Jupiter Station not good enough for the original now?"

I frown. I hadn't wanted to tell him so earlier on in our visit, but I figure now is a good a time as any. Better he know now than expect something later.

"We lost Travis."

His gaze shoots up, spears me from across the room. I see a brief flash of anger in his eyes, then just as quickly as it showed up it's gone. His features fall, his hands drop to bang uselessly against the counter. "Jesus, Mal, I'm sorry."

My eyebrows raise of their accord. "You're 'sorry'? Trip, he was your friend too."

He shakes his head slightly, resumes his ministrations. "Don't get me wrong. Travis is...was the best helmsman I knew, and for all I could tell a helluva guy. But I just didn't know him that well, y'know? I only talked to him a handful of times off duty." He pauses, his face turns thoughtful for a second before he says, "My loss now, I guess. How's everyone holding up?"

I sigh. This is exactly why I had been hoping to put this conversation off for a few days. Trip's been out of the loop for a long time, and I just know that there are going to be things he doesn't want to hear. But true to his masochistic streak, he's going to hound me until I tell him. Best to avoid the subject all together.

"Hoshi's a wreck. Jonathon blames himself, but I'm sure you could've guessed that." I notice his eyebrows shoot up at my casual mention of Captain Archer's first name. He doesn't realize how difficult it is to continue calling someone by their title while on a seven year mission.

"How did it happen?"

I sigh again. I hate going through the story, but Trip deserves to hear it. "We were part of a diplomatic party to Necression, a desert planet about nine hundred light years from here. T'Pol, Travis, Hoshi, the Captain and I. Jon thought a security team would stick out like a sore thumb, and he was right. These people are highly sensitive, easy to take offense. Travis got caught between an assassination attempt on their world leader. We beamed him right to sickbay, but he was gone already."

The kitchen falls into silence; Trip's brow furrows as he assimilates all the details. "Okay, lemme guess. You blame yourself too."

My frown deepens. Even after seven years, he can still read me like a book. Damn frustrating. Consequently, I know not to give some half assed attempt at denial.

"I should've fought harder. If I could've swayed the Captain, we could've brought a whole security team. My people would've caught the assassin, and Travis would be around today."

He pulls two mugs out of the top cupboard, sets them down on the counter. "Well, I see not much has changed in seven years. You're still the Master of the "What If" game. I know first hand how stubborn the Cap'n can be. If he didn't want a security team down there, then you could bet your commission there wasn't going to be a security team down there. He's ignored your advice before, Mal. It's too bad he had to learn the hard way that he should listen to you, and it's too bad Travis had to pay the ultimate price."

I stare at him for a long minute while he pours the tea into each mug, adding milk and sugar to one and a squirt of honey to the other. I'd forgotten how perceptive he can be. He's one of a few people I've ever met who can pick up on all the subtle nuances of a person's behaviour. He was always the one I would go to if someone's actions didn't make sense to me. He was, and hopefully still is, the epitome of the "people person."

He hands me my black tea, takes a seat across from me, and I decide a change in conversation is in order. I twist around in my chair to look in on his daughter. "She's a beautiful girl. But Charlie, Trip? Charles Tucker?"

He grins, shakes his head a little. "No, I'm not that cruel. Her full names Charles Elizabeth. That way when she gets older, she can choose."

I sit for a minute to think on that. I don't know what to say first; how strange I think it is that he included his daughter in that particular family tradition, or how noble and fitting I think it is that he named her for his dead sister. "Let me guess. Charles Tucker the fourth."

He shrugs. "I know what you're thinking. I've probably just saddled her with years of therapy for sticking her with such a heavy custom. Not to mention it's a male name. But when she was born, I didn't know if I was going to have any more children. I didn't want the name to die with me."

I smile at him. It's obvious to me he's thought about this a great deal. Perhaps he feels a little guilty? "I wasn't thinking that at all. Besides, you're part of that tradition. And you turned out mostly all right."

"Yeah, I guess I did." He takes a sip of tea to hide his grin, but does a very poor job of it.

Something occurs to me then. "Charlie mentioned Scooter before. Who's that?"

As if in very response to my words, a high pitched shrieking sounds from the floor above us. Trip smiles, rises from his seat. "That-"he says, pointing to the floor above us with one finger- "Is Scooter."

Without anymore on the subject, he sets down his mug of tea and leaves the kitchen. I sigh heavily and sit back on the wooden hair. I never thought I would see Trip in a domestic role like this, but he definitely seems comfortable. Part of me is surprised he's a stay at home dad. Although I've always known he holds great respect for the opposite sex, I had assumed he was simply to animated and dynamic to sit in a house all day.

I take a sip from my tea, smiling at the memories that come with it. After all these years, he could still remember how I take it. I'm convinced at that moment that never will a day pass that I don't get surprised by something Trip as done. The man is an enigma, as unreadable and unpredictable to me as a Klingon opera.

I set down my tea, and move into the room where Charlie sits doodling on the floor. She's laying on her stomach, a collection of blank papers and drawings spread out in front of her. There's a blue crayon on one hand, and a brown one in the other. She looks up as I approach, and holds out the blue crayon.

"You wanna draw with me?"

I smile. Even less developed than my skills with children is my ability to handle a crayon. "Thank you for the offer, Charlie, but I'm afraid I haven't any skill. At least, not like you do."

She grins at the not-so-subtle compliment, and goes back to her drawing without another word.

Motion from the front hall catches my attention. Trip is coming down the stairs, very slowly and extremely awkwardly, with an infant held carefully against his chest. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily, and I manage to look away before he glances in my direction. I hadn't realized it was quite so bad. He does a good job of hiding his discomfort when on level surfaces. But apparently, going up and down the stairs is too much for his damaged knee.

He comes over after a full two minutes, and sets the strawberry blond child on the ground. The little boy is off like a rocket the minute his knees touch the carpetting, racing towards his sister with a speed that would rival the new 6.5 engine.

I look at the blatant pride on my friend's face, then crouch down before the child to study him more closely. Besides the hair, he resembles Trip even more closely than Charlie. It's clear he'd been crying, but there was a wide, innocent smile on his face now. Without a word, Charlie passes him a crayon, and a blank piece of paper. Trip passes by the endearing scene, and into the kitchen. I feel a twinge in my chest at the scenario, and realize a moment later that twinge was jealously. Although I'd never realized it before, this is the life I'd always wanted. A couple of kids I could raise without the weight of tradition on their shoulders. Learn from my parents mistakes, and make their lives that much better. I sigh, then get to my feet and follow Trip into the kitchen. It's certainly not too late for a similar life of my own, but I know that my career will always have precedence over anything else.


End file.
